Illusions dashed-Consumer Reports

I have always liked Consumer Reports. I think I still do...but!!!

I received notice in snail mail that my subscription was up. Fair enough. I don't like to send money or checks by snail mail and echecking seems to get mixed up because I cannot send the return stub back. Somehow, just using the account number doesn't work.

I wanted to take care of the subscription as soon as possible...remove one thing from my plate, so I called the 1-800 number "for faster service". The consumer report customer service was slow, and I was placed on hold. They have terrific classical music to soothe the customers on hold, so I put the speaker phone on to enjoy the fine quality of the sound. About a minute into it, I was encouraged to take care of my business on www.consumerreports.org  and it would be easy.

I listened to more music, and another minute or so, the same message came on. This was getting to be a long hold, and the music was becoming less soothing. After about the third announcement of the www address, I keyed the address onto my browser. The home page came up, sleek, business like.

I was experienced in these things. I went to my account, knowing full well that I had never set up an account, but this was an opportunity of a lifetime. I had two choices: enter my user id and password or subscribe. I entered my email and pressed "I forgot my user id" and the message returned was no email on file. That to me was unbelievable because every organization in the world seems to be able to get to me by email, to the extent that the first five minute after I open my email in the morning is spent deleting messages from every organization under the sun, most of whom I had never contacted had my email. These are the ones who make it through my generous spam filter.

I waited on the phone, listening to more music, and finally, after a five minute wait overall, a person came on. I paid for my subscription, and then popped the how come question. "While I was waiting on hold, I was told I could take care of all my business at the .org address. How come there was no window to open an account? (get a user id, and password, and pay for my subscription)?"
My courteous rep told me I had to click on subscribe, "You have to open an online subscription for $30 to use that service."

Boy was I deflated. I would have to pay Consumer Reports $30 to manage my hard copy subscription of $26. There seems to be a disconnect here. Shouldn't an online version be cheaper than a hard copy sent via USPS? Wouldn't it make sense to encourage people to select online services with a lower price. What really boosts readership and cuts costs?
Whose side is Consumer Reports on?

Journey''s end

After two and a half weeks, I finally feel like my journey to the Mediterranean Sea area is complete. My daughter and grandson arrived home on Tuesday night, and I visited them the past couple of days.
She wanted to do the Tunisian leg of the journey on her own. She was meeting her relatives there and baby Khaled was being introduced to his grandparents on that side for the first time. It was a joyful occasion for everyone with welcome parties and birthday parties for the baby. Meg was treated to some of the beauty of this small North African country, and had much to say about the hospitality of the people. She walked around ruins that dated back over two millenia, and put her feet into the sea that was the center of the known universe for such a short time in history.
But the center of the visit was family. I can appreciate the grandfather holding the baby for the first time; singing the songs of Tunisia to his grandson. I enjoy thinking of the grandmother cradling the boy, telling him how beautiful and happy he is. I can picture the pride of his father as he spoke of his son to uncles, friends and neighbors. His aunt also loved this beautiful bundle of energy and fun.
Baby Khaled, speaking the universal language of smiles and cheer, squeals and infant sounds has proven to be a great ambassador to Turkey and Tunisia.

Travel observations

Upon reaching Taksim square after an afternoon in Kadikoy, we decided to relax, have  a nice dinner and get ready to leave. The airport “limo” was to pick us up at 10 a.m. the next day to get us to Ataturk airport so we could go through security before my plane departed at 1:15 p.m. Istanbul time.
We decided on an Indian restaurant that was a half block from the hotel. In America, when you go Indian, rice is served with almost all meals. Not in Turkey. Rice was a separate item. It was not a deal breaker, but little things like that often happen when traveling.
There were no wash cloths in our hotel room. We asked for them, and the maid said “No washcloths.” affirming and denying my request. I suppose it is important to bring a few with you while you travel, or one of those polyester puffs. Another thing that was different, but not unusual was the absence of a top sheet. A duvet over a comforter took its place.
Money is important. I worried about that part. I set out from here with 12 US dollars in my wallet. I returned with $2 and a few coins worth about 15 cents in Turkey. I suspect most of the things purchased there were rounded up to the nearest lira. Before I went, I visited my bank to make sure my debit card would work in the ATMs in Istanbul. I also called my Mastercard company to let them know I was traveling, including the dates so the card could be used abroad. These instruments both worked well. On a couple of occasions, the ATM said wrong pin, and I immediately withdrew my card, and went to another machine. The Mastercard was excellent for meals. No, I did not eat the card.
At ATMs, I would withdraw small amounts, like 80 lira ($40) so I would not be loaded up with foreign money at the end of the stay. This would not have been a problem since there are exchange kiosks at the airports.
The Metro pass was a mystery to me. Meg solved it. We had to put down a 7 lira deposit to acquire a plastic card at a store. Then, we had  to go to a machine near the Metro stop to get it charged for the amount that we estimated would be needed for the rides that we intended to take. Meg put 10 lira on the cards for each of us. The Metro plastic purchase was a bargain when compared to a taxi both in time and cost. We used the cards for ground travel and the ferry to Asia. It was really neat speeding along the streets by rail, missing the traffic tie ups and the vendors who seemed to know that the cabdrivers in the traffic jams  needed sunglasses and water, and if I rolled my window down, someone was bound to come up to the stopped vehicle with water or looking for a handout. The Metro was great, used mostly by working people who enjoyed the smile and flashing eyes of the baby.
We never figured out what to do with the cards to get our deposit back, so we left one with a friend who was staying another day, and the other in the room as a partial tip.
Security at airports always seems to be a hassle, but I suppose it is effective. At the Ataturk airport, it was necessary to pass security immediately on entering the facility. Bags had to be placed on conveyor belts, and everyone walked through a screening booth with hands held high. I had a laptop in my luggage that Meg wanted me to bring home. At first, the security person requested that I remove the laptop and send it through separately. I fumbled with several zippers on the suitcase, opened the wrong one, fumbled with the zippers on the second case, and the line was getting backed up. Finally, he said never mind, and I was through. I went to the line to get my boarding pass and check my bags.
Another screener asked if I had a laptop, and I answered yes. "Is it yours?" she inquired. I realized that I could claim ownership, but the next question in my mind would have proven me a liar, and then I might be sent to jail, so I said "No, it belonged to Yale University." The truth. She brought me back to the original luggage scanning area, and asked that I open the case and remove the laptop. Yale was written all over it, and threats about stealing it. She put it through the screening line, and then asked me to turn it on. Somehow, I found the button. She looked at the screen, pressed some more buttons, turned it off and returned it to me. She then ushered me to the head of the line for boarding passes. that was neat. I am not sure whether she put some stickers on the bag or not. Soon the bags were on their way to the plane.
When it came time to board, I went to the gate. Attendants looked at the boarding passes of the travelers, and showed them to the waiting area. As I walked through, I handed the attendant my passport and boarding pass, and she pointed me toward a ramp that led to a table. "Why are you traveling in Turkey? How long have you been here?"   "Why me?" I thought. "I'm just a gray haired old man!"  "One week, on a pleasure trip" I replied. They presented me with a sheet of paper that I had to sign twice in little boxes that were next to each other, as if to prove that I could sign the same way twice within 10 seconds. One of my signatures filled both boxes, but I wrote the second one over it. They put some stamps on my passport, and I was free to go.
Reentry at JFK...more to come.

Asia calling

Asia in the background. This was taken at a
reception at Bahceshir University
sponsored by Meg's group.
Wine and appetizers.

Meg thought it to be cool to set foot on four continents within a week, and we set out to accomplish this on Friday, our last full day in Istanbul. Across the Bosphorous River, a short Ferry ride from the Eminonu, lay the Asian side of Istanbul. The same Metro card used for land transportation is used for the ferry. Over  a quarter million people use the service daily to get to jobs in the European section, and return. The ferry from Eminonu runs every twenty minutes. All we wanted to do was cross over. The word "No" came in handy at the ferry station. There were people all over the place attempting to sell us a tour of the river for 35 Lira. "No, we just want to cross over" and someone directed us to the right wharf for that. Still we were dogged with tour offers. "No, no, no..."

We found the queue for the ferry to Kadikoy, and the tour book was correct; people push hard to get to the front. Fortunately, it was not rush hour. In about fifteen minutes, we were in Asia. 

I went into a tourist information kiosk, and was directed to the town shopping area, just up the street.

Street scenes in Kadikoy 

I took these pictures to give a flavor of this part of Istanbul. Istanbul is 99% Muslim, and probably 60% Western. The ads in the background of these photos definitely have a Western appeal. I found this to be an odd conflict, produced by Turkey's relentless pursuit to join the European community, and yet retain its ancient Muslim heritage.

Often on the street, there are shoe shine stands, a lost occupation here in the US. My father used to shine shoes in his father's barber shop in the 1920s. In Turkey, it is still a living.

The down town of Kadikoy reminds me of old down town Troy, NY except the buildings are taller and the streets a little narrower. There were no department stores as we know them, but plenty of shops where you could get what you wanted- clothing, jewelry, knickknacks, children's items. All in all, Asia was a pleasant experience going back in time only a few years. I know there is more to Asia than Istanbul, and it would be different. Some year, I hope to check out the rest of it.

We became very confident of our ability to navigate the waters and the land transportation that we took the ferry to a different location on return. We went to the Kabatas wharf, and then had only one Metro stop to Taksim square, where it continued to be sunny and cheerful.

European Istanbul from return ferry

more to come....

Grand Bazaar

The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul is in the old section of town, two stops from the Sultanhamet district where we were the day before.
 photo from Wikipedia

It is hard to capture this immense place in a photo, or in words. This is all indoors, packed with vendors and shoppers. The photo seems to be cleaned up. To me it was dimly lit and cavernous.There are a few main streets, and lots of connector streets. It is an old place that at one time was the center of commerce in this part of the world. I am guessing that you could take Crossgates mall, multiply the number of stores times 1000, and reduce the size of each store to maybe the size of your living room, you might get the picture. Then add a small front area about the width of the living room for displays, and racks of goods, and you have it. The Bazaar is divided into sections for gold, silver, copper, bronze, etc., jewelry,dry goods, spices, carpets, and more. there seem to be hundreds of shops in each category. No price tags on anything, forced an interaction between the shopper and the vendor.
So Meg, Khaled and I ventured into this huge building with a few things in mind: a shawls, some trinkets, and a handbag. Meg wanted to get a Longchamps bag. We looked over a number of bag displays, and what I thought looked good, she dismissed as cheap knockoffs. We then inquired in one shop about Longchamps bags. The vendor did not carry that line, and a young boy was assigned to us to usher us through the streets to a Longchamps supplied shop. His first attempt was incorrect, and that vendor had him lead us to another shop. We came to a display of bags, and he said something that made us believe we had arrived at bag almighty.
Soon, a young man approached us, and we told him what we were looking for. He opened a door next to the display and we were in handbag heaven. It was a bright, air conditioned room, way smaller than your living room. Handbags on the shelves. No Longchamps on display. Another man came in. Meg described what she wanted. He told us to have a seat, and he would be right back. He probably went to what we would call the basement or store room, and returned in 5 minutes with an armload of Longchamps in a variety of colors. He poured them out on the floor. Meg seemed to know that they were genuine, and she chose a color that the vendor agreed was very beautiful. "How much?" Meg inquired. "90 lira."  "Will you take 60?" she shot back. "No! Maybe 80." She offered 70 and the deal was struck at 75. " Would you like another?" he asked. But Meg declined.
Meg wanted to see the carpet section. The bag man had a friend who sold them, and another young man ushered us to the brother's carpet shop. We were ushered into a secret room, and the pitch was about to begin. Meg explained that we were not about to buy anything. The man was nice enough to back off, and let us admire the rugs. Upon leaving that shop, we noticed another that was more open. On the back wall there hung a huge carpet, worth $25,000. It was beautiful, way better than Huck Finn's Warehouse. But we could not carry it so we didn't buy it.
We were looking for some gifts for me to take back for friends and relatives. Vendors of shawls were all over. We came to a place that had wool, cotton, silk, pashmin, and blends. Honestly, they were all beautiful, and every one of them as priced seemed like a bargain. 40 lira was the highest priced. Nevertheless, Meg would not settle for their price. She manged to get the price down 5 lira on a mid-priced shawl, and then we chose one that was a traditional Ottoman pattern. The silk felt elegant to touch. We looked through some of the gold and silver shops on our way to find some memento type jewelry for gifts.
On the corner, a  bracelet display caught Meg's eye. When the vendor came up to us, he gave us some prices, and then found some that we less expensive, and oddly the price was not bad. Meg haggled a bit. We bought three bracelets. When the man found out that it was Khaled's first birthday, he pinned a traditional "evil eye" charm on him to ward off the evil eyes (poverty, disease, etc.) of life.
My honed math skills came in handy here, The three bracelets cost 30 lira. I had only 20 lira and one ten dollar bill in my wallet. I  offered the ten dollar bill as partial payment. The man said sure. So I  gave him just 10 lira and the ten dollars in payment. He was hoping for the 20  lira, plus the ten. He was obviously disappointed, but knew it was right.
We eventually left the Grand Bazaar, had a drink of bottled water, used the public WC where you had to pay a lira to urinate or squat in a trough. We made our way to the Metro.
After dinner, while relaxing, the phone rang in our room. It was for baby Khaled. The management had a complimentary birthday cake to deliver to him. It came with two candles...one for the first year and one for the upcoming second year. Two layers of chocolate sandwiched slices of banana. Delicious.
It was a great beginning for the second year of life. (More to come)

A day to tour

I spent breakfast the next morning trying to figure out what had happened the night before. No one was talking about it. Al Jazeera English had no news. The Wall Street Journal had nothing. Apparently a demonstration in Taksim Square is not news.
Meg did not have to be at her conference until 2:30, so on the anniversary of 9/11 Baby Khaled, Meg, and I headed out for sightseeing. We didn't get far before someone asked us where we were from. "New York!" we replied in unison, and then the person said, "I'm sorry." referring to the 9/11 attack twelve years ago.
We got into a taxi, and told the driver to take us to the Blue Mosque. He pointed out some of the sights along the way, other mosques that were important, and ruins dating back to Constantine.
We then came into a section of town where the streets were lined with merchandise, mostly hardware: tools, both hand and power, small tractors and mowers, carpets, tiles, lumber, shower, bath, toilet and kitchen fixtures. There were competing vendors and there were a stores with more stuff. In my mind, I saw Home Depot before there was such a place. "This street is deserted at night, the driver said, "no one comes down here." That answered a question of logistics that was gnawing at me, "Do they take this stuff in at night, and how do they do it?"  I guess it is all a permanent extension of the store, and no one dares to steal in Turkey.
We arrived at a place in the street near the Blue Mosque. It appeared to be a dead end, and we were greeted by a man who was very friendly. He would show us how to get to the mosque. We assumed he was some kind of tour guide there to help ease the traffic flow. He led us down a street past some beautiful shops. He was cheerful and seemed helpful. He offered to walk us to the mosque. "No." I said, "just point us in the right direction." And he did, through another block of restaurants and shops. We found our way without him.
In retrospect, this was a neat set up for the tourist industry, one of many to take advantage of the tourist. the cab driver could have easily dropped us off closer to where the mosque was. Instead, he left us where we were actually preyed upon by a man who wanted us either to buy his guided tour, and short of that, introduce us to the wonderful shops and dining facilities in that old section of Istanbul.
The guide books about Istanbul have a short section with word to use while getting around the city. Translations of hello, good morning, yes, no, and thank you. I think the most important one to actually learn is thank you. The others are for the most part understandable around the world. And we used the word "No" a lot. That is a big word when confronted with the many dealers on the streets in any big city.
Meg told me not to use hand gestures since they may be interpreted as rude or insulting. I probably insulted a half dozen people an hour during our stay. Thumbs up is okay.
We made it to the Blue Mosque, or the Sultan Ahmed mosque built by him in the early 1600s. It was beautiful outside and in. There was a long line, and many steps to climb with the stroller before we actually entered. A man came and offered to take us on a tour that would eliminate the lines and get us to see some extra parts of the mosque. "45 Euros". That is between 65 and 90 US dollars. "No!" We waited our turn. At the top of the steps, fifteen or so, we had to abandon the stroller... not allowed. We took off our shoes, and carried them in a furnished plastic bag. Meg donned her shawl. Other women were given a shawl, and even a robe if not attired properly.
We then strolled through the part of the mosque that was reserved for visitors. the prayer area was cordoned off. Both sections were huge, and the blue beauty of the mosque was astounding. It, as with many of the mosques and churches are remarkable in structure, vastness, and proportion. These were all built before the age of steel, and will probably not be duplicated too soon.
As we exited, we put on our shoes, found the stroller, and headed to Aya Sophia.               
                   photo is from http://www.hagiasophia.com/listingview.php?listingID=18

From the same web site:

"Hagia Sophia was choosen a world heritage site by UNESCO in 1985. "Rebuilt by the orders of Emperor Justinian in 537, for 900 years Hagia Sophia had been the center of Orthodox Christianity until 1453 when the city was concurred by Ottomans. 500 years following the conquest of Muslims, it became a jewel for the Muslim world and as the grand mosque of the sultans. "In 1935, Hagia Sophia had been converted into a museum of Turkish Republic by the orders of Ataturk, and became one of the most significant monuments not only in Turkey but on earth with its architecture and its historical richness."

It was neat walking around a building dating from before the fifth century. The only thing that old around here are rocks.

After touring this vast museum, we walked back to the street which we had been shown to by our first guide, and had lunch.

 It was a narrow street, the width of two cars. You could call it two lanes, but one of the lanes was used for parking, and it was a dead end for traffic. We sat an elbow from the traffic. Perhaps two cars came up the street to turn around during our lunch.

We were running out of time. Meg had to get back. We realized that it would take hours to travel by taxi, so we decided to use the Metro (they call it that). We figured it out. Meg carried the baby, and I had the stroller. Immediately, two people gave up their seats on the train: to Meg because she was  carrying the baby, and to me because I was a tired old man. Of course Khaled rewarded the other passengers with lots of wide eyes and smiles. We had to transfer to get to Taksim Square station, and then climb about 50 steps to the square where there was no evidence of the previous night's protest... just sun and fun. "No!" to the kid who was selling tiny packs of kleenex for 1TL (50  cents). And "No!" to the guy selling water, and "No!" to the woman who offered to baby sit (or was that a proposition?) ...more to come.

Some Photos from Istanbul

At Taksim Square

Street behind Aga Triada

Aya Triada- Holy Trinity

Icon in A. Triada

Icon in A. Triada

 

Blue mosque - Sutanhamet

Blue mosque interior

Aya Sophia interior

crossing the Bosphorus to Asia

Fruit vendor cart in Taksim Square

Looking for treasures at Taksim Square

Taksim square

We had agreed to meet at Taksim square and proceed to the 5 Cats (Cat means "Floor" ) for dinner with Meg's friends.  Where we had taken a picture last night was the meeting point, and that was in front of the monument of the Republic. Baby Kahled walked through the huge square and observed how peaceful it seemed. People were vending and buying, families were enjoying the sun in the park, a great place to be.
When we arrived at the outer circle of the monument, we attempted to pass a few young people near the monument, and we were informed that the monument was closed. I assumed that perhaps they were just closing early for the day, although it was only about 6:30. I walked around the monument in the direction that Meg would be coming from, and I noticed that these young people, and there were probably about 100 of them surrounding the monument, wore shirts indicating that they were police. Unusual I thought. I found Meg, and after a quick hug, and exchange of pleasantries, we agreed to leave the square immediately. We followed her friends down a side street radiating from the square, toward where the restaurant was.
We quickly realized that we were walking against the grain, a flow of students moving toward the square for a demonstration. It was not a problem to pass, and all seemed peaceful. Then on several side streets we spied large numbers of police decked out in helmets, shields, clubs and guns. We were in the middle of something that was suddenly very uncomfortable. We continued toward the restaurant. To turn around would have been to be marching with the demonstrators, and we did not want to do that. Chanting started. Some of the people had hard hats and masks and seemed to be prepared for the worst. We got off the street to assess the situation. When the chanting stopped, we went the final fifty yards or so to the restaurant.
We felt safe there. The trip to the fifth floor was by an elevator that had a two person capacity. The friends gave deference to Meg with the baby, and me the old man. We ascended and then had to take the stairs to the 6th floor roof dining area.
We talked briefly about the street scene. No one really knew what it was about, and the waiters seemed not to know. Certainly they were ignoring it.
The consensus among our group was to enjoy the meal and stay as long as possible.
Meanwhile, out on the streets below, there were shots fired, "fireworks" they called them; tear gas was used; "it is illegal to demonstrate in Turkey"; the crowd was being dispersed before it reached the square.
So what was going on in my mind despite all the pleasantries of conversation? How do we get back to our hotel which was exactly opposite where we were on the other side of the square? What if there is a curfew? Suppose the hotel has closed for the night, and we can't get in. Could we make it back through the side streets? What if we end up in jail?
We stayed until 11:00. The owner and waiters knew the predicament. Meg and some others talked to them to put together a strategy. A couple of the waiters were willing to walk people back to the hotels. The owner called some taxis.
Several taxis arrived. Meg, Khaled, and I were joined in the first taxi by a man named Jim who was staying at a hotel next to ours. It took fifteen minutes for the driver to maneuver through the streets, around the square at a safe distance from the "fireworks", to our hotel, which was open. Jim paid the cab driver, and awarded him a handsome tip.
We entered the hotel, thankful for its safety, and tiredness made us sleep well.
The next day, we found out the reason for the demonstration. Apparently, a young man was killed at a protest in eastern Turkey the day before. He died of injuries consistent with being clubbed. The students in Istanbul were rising up to protest this injustice.
There was not much in the news about this. The people did not seem concerned at all about it. It was not talked about. Perhaps protests are too common. There had been one at Taksim Square every month since May. There was another the next night at a different location in the city despite the illegality of assembly and protest, a right that we cherish in the USA. (more to come)

Istanbul, another day

After the peaceful walk around the neighborhood on Monday, we slept well. We awaited dawn, and then realized  that dawn had occurred three hours earlier, and we had less than an hour to get down to breakfast before the restaurant stopped serving at 10:00 a.m... those room darkening drapes really worked.
It was a sumptuous feast for breakfast: scrambled eggs, potatoes, boiled eggs, another kind of potato, biscuits, muffins, bagels, sweets, dozens of cheeses, olives, fruits, tomatoes, pancakes, honey from the comb, Turkish cheese pasta, and dried figs. It was nice to taste a fresh dried fig. It seems that in the USA, the dried figs have been in the bag a long time, have sugared immensely, and it is really hard to find the fig taste. We ate a little of everything. The baby tasted some of it, charmed the waiters, and the other attendants.
But that was not the only meal that day. Meg had to meet her peers at the Hilton for lunch at 1. Undaunted by the traffic, we proceeded in the direction of the Hilton following a map. It was a short walk, they said. We walked, and walked some more for about twenty minutes. We saw some nice parks, and turned onto a boulevard that was practically deserted, except for a few taxis and buses. It was hard to imagine that the Hilton was so far out of the normal traffic. It wasn't. Our map led us to a huge driveway, and a security station. The Hilton was there. It was extremely tall because we were entering through the sub basement, two stories below the lobby. Another security man came to meet us, and put me, with the stroller on a loading lift, and let us off at the dock. We followed him past workers moving tables and chairs in and out of storage. We saw where they put the wine glasses after they were used. We saw and heard the dishwashers humming and the food being prepared. We were in the bowels of the hotel, a sight seldom if ever seen by tourists.. A more detailed map would have spared us this interesting detour into the workings of the Hilton.
Meg found her luncheon, and Khaled and I were left to our own devices. He had lunch in one of the cafes off the lobby, had his diaper changed, and charmed the people who were trying to do their business. I asked for a new map, borrowed napkins to clean up the baby's face, and prepared myself for the afternoon of touring.
I like to walk. We went out the front of the hotel, which was indeed only five minutes walk from our hotel. I proceeded down the main drag, Istikial Cadesi, and walked through some tough areas that were under construction. The cobblestones were in disrepair, so we walked in the street. We dodged taxis, buses and motorcycles, and after about half an hour arrived at the Pera, a private museum, that has five floors of displays. The first two floors house antiquities. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pera_Museum
The Upper three floors have contemporary displays of art and photography. We started on the fifth floor. Perhaps the most engaging display there was a series of photographs taken at a demonstration in Taksim Square last May. The photos showed a combination of bravery and brutality as the demonstrators were dispersed with clubs and tear gas. The governor of the state defended the police action by reminding the people that it is illegal to demonstrate in Turkey. It was hard to believe that this had taken place at the square that seemed so peaceful to us the night before. When we left the museum, we followed the signs to Taksim. Men, old and young, helped to lift the stroller over the rough patches and barriers in the street under construction.
Khaled and I relaxed in our room for a while, and soon Meg called. "We are going out to dinner at a place near Taksim Square. I will meet you at the monument, near where we took a picture last night."  "Okay" I said, "see you in a little while". (More to come.)

Istanbul, an introduction

Until last week, I had limited my worldwide travel to the U.S. and Canada (Montreal and Ottawa). I always knew there had to be more to it, so I got a passport last December, just in case opportunity knocked for a chance to see the world without joining the navy. The passport grew dusty for nine months, and then the knock. My daughter "Will you come to Istanbul with me and babysit while I attend the conference?" Who  can resist time with a smiling, energetic, wide eyed almost one year old grandson, and an interesting, loving courageous daughter? Of course I said yes.
Istanbul, hmmm! Is it a town, a city, a country? Europe, Asia, or Africa? Wikipedia told me it was a big city, one of the largest in the world (14 million people), It is hard to count after a while. It probably is one of the largest area wide, 2000 square miles or 40 miles by 50 miles. It is located on two continents, Europe and Asia, and is one of the oldest cities around.
It is in Turkey. Whoa! That's right next to Syria, and in the same neighborhood as Egypt, Libya, and bunch of other countries where there seems to me continuous fighting, ethnic and religious strife, and a host of other issues, not to mention disease, disability and death. There were big demonstrations at Taksim Square in June, July and August of this year. The demonstrators were routed by police using tear gas, rubber bullets and other things  each time, and were warned that demonstrating in Turkey was illegal.
With all this swirling in my head, I prepared to go, ready to spend time in jail, if need be. I did not pack a hard hat or gas mask. The fun of being with two of my favorite people over came any misgivings I had.
After the usual hassle at the airport (I must look suspicious... too happy), we boarded our Turkish Airlines jet, Flight 1, from JFK on a Sunday evening. Pillows, blankets, slippers, food, wine (three glasses) and two great meals made me quickly forget the terminal hassles and fall in love with air travel. Ten hours later, wheels down at Ataturk Airport. It was Monday already. An hour later, we arrived at the Point hotel, maybe two blocks from Taksim square. After a brief rest, a sample of Turkish delight from the hotel desk, the three of us set out to explore the neighborhood. Baby Khaled smiled for everyone, flashed his eyes and won the world. We walked to the square through big crowds of people, avoiding obstacles placed there by the constant construction that would move Istanbul into the 21st century and the possibility of hosting the summer Olympics.
(The decision not to hold the Olympics there was made by the committee that weekend. I am not sure whether the people who made that decision had actually visited Istanbul. Depending on where you were in the city, a person could have voted either way.)
At the square, probably the size of ten football fields, we paused for a photo at the Republic monument, which commemorates the establishment of the republic of Turkey in 1920. Vendors of pretzels, corn on the cob, chestnuts, and other Turkish delicacies dotted the square (the square was more round.) Rugs, jewelry, scarfs were also available. It was a beautiful, leisurely experience, yet only a month ago the square had been the scene of a large, illegal demonstration dispersed by force. We walked up one of the side streets and purchased some baklava (way different/better from what I made in my own kitchen.) After a stop in a market to purchase water, we negotiated a few cobblestone streets to the Haya Triada, a Greek Orthodox Church built in the late1800s. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hagia_Triada_Greek_Orthodox_Church,_Istanbul 

The view of the church is virtually obliterated by ugly buildings.  It was difficult to find, even as we stood next to it. The vestibule was decorated with several icons, and an altar with burning candles. In the heart of this bastion of Islam, there is a nod to Christianity.

We had dinner that night in an Italian restaurant. It seems that besides MacDonald's, Starbucks, and Burger King, the Italian cuisine dominates across cultures.
We finished the first full day in Istanbul with a sense of relief and comfort. We knew that English was understood, and found out that most signs and menus were printed for us.  Comfort food or pizza was just outside our hotel door. We found people to be friendly, helping to lift the baby stroller up steps and over bumps. The money system was easy to understand, 2 Turkish lira equals a US dollar. We were happy, and slept until 9:30 Tuesday morning. (more to come)

POP 3 Server

There was my grandfather, 

I called “Pa";

65, retired railroad man;

Known as “Pop" in the yard.

Then came my “Dad"

as I called him.

"Pop" he was dubbed by his grandchildren galore.

I took respite in a small restaurant, 

Feeling hardy and spry;

No “Hon" or “Sweetie" from this guy.

"What’ll you have, Pop?"

My Pop 3 server. 

Reminding me time marches on.

Responsibility?

A British soldier is hacked to death by an extremist. A reaction, aired on CNN, from a friend simply condemns the British government and its continued involvement in the war in Afghanistan. "All war involves killing, and the government is to blame for the tragedy!" There is no condemnation of the hackers' actions.

So, where does individual responsibility enter into the mix of violence after violence. The government is a big group with many players. It is easy to blame it. It is easy to condemn it. But does it really take away an individual's responsibility for a crime upon another person using the faulty reasoning that because a nation wages war, therefore, it is okay for an angry radical to do violence on an innocent person, off duty, who had previously served his nation.

To take a life is wrong. It may be mitigated by true self-defense. It may be altered by circumstances such as defending the innocent or securing rights for people who are oppressed. Clear vision is usually obliterated when it comes to the action of killing. The welfare of the country, the depravity of the enemy, the suffering masses, uncertain battle lines all help to obfuscate the cause of righteous.
At times, individuals rise up and protest against the government's actions. Men and women declare themselves conscientious objectors and make a statement against actions of war. This stance has been respected by governments. Objectors have made and continue to make their statements by demonstrations, hunger strikes, and other non-lethal actions. They take responsibility for what they do.
That is what should happen. No one should be excused for murder. Murderers  should be condemned, not apologized to. Everyone has responsibility for his/her actions. "The government made him do it" does not excuse, but only compounds the violence.

Where does a person learn personal responsibility? I think it is often taught negatively. When you do something wrong, you pay the price. More should be said about paying the price for doing the right thing, not always for the immediate prize, but for a better future. When individuals take responsibility for their actions there will be fewer murders and fewer suicide bombings, and maybe a responsible culture will prevail over  whomever or whatever, might be the agents of irresponsibility.

Lest we forget

In the wake of the Boston Marathon terrorist bombing, the name calling and suspicion that results from it, I propose that we revisit a great author to remind ourselves about some fundamental realities necessary for living in this, our only world. I read this to my kids when they were small. It was fun to read, fun to listen to, and it packed a great message. As I reread it today, it was still fun to read out loud, even to myself, and I remember the message.
The Sneetches, by Dr. Seuss 
Now, the Star-Belly Sneetches had bellies with stars. 
The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars. 
Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small. 
You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all. 

But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches 
Would brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.” 
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort 
“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!” 
And, whenever they met some, when they were out walking, 
They’d hike right on past them without even talking. 

When the Star-Belly children went out to play ball, 
Could a Plain Belly get in the game? Not at all. 
You only could play if your bellies had stars 
And the Plain-Belly children had none upon thars. 

When the Star Belly Sneetches had frankfurter roasts 
Or picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts, 
They never invited the Plain-Belly Sneetches 
They left them out cold, in the dark of the beaches. 
They kept them away. Never let them come near. 
And that’s how they treated them year after year. 

Then ONE day, it seems while the Plain-Belly Sneetches 
Were moping and doping alone on the beaches, 
Just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars, 
A stranger zipped up in the strangest of cars! 

“My friends”, he announced in a voice clear and clean, 
“My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean. 
And I’ve heard of Your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy. 
But I can fix that, I’m the Fix-It-Up Chappie. 

I’ve come here to help you. 
I have what you need. 
And my prices are low. And I work with great speed. 
And my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed!” 

Then, quickly, Sylvester McMonkey McBean 
Put together a very peculiar machine. 
And he said, “You want stars like a Star-Belly Sneetch? 
My friends, you can have them for three dollars each!” 

“Just pay me your money and hop right aboard!” 
So they clambered inside. Then the big machine roared. 
And it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berked. 
And it bopped them about. But the thing really worked! 
When the Plain-Belly Sneetches popped out, they had stars! 
They actually did. They had stars upon thars! 

Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start, 
“We’re still the best Sneetches and they are the worst. 
But now, how in the world will we know”, they all frowned, 
“If which kind is what, or the other way round?” 

Then up came McBean with a very sly wink. 
And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think. 
So you don’t know who’s who. That is perfectly true. 
But come with me, friends. Do you know what I’ll do? 
I’ll make you, again, the best Sneetches on the beaches. 
And all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.” 

“Belly stars are no longer in style”, said McBean. 
“What you need is a trip through my Star-Off Machine. 
This wondrous contraption will take OFF your stars 
so you won’t look like Sneetches that have them on thars.” 
And that handy machine working very precisely 
Removed all the stars from their tummies quite nicely. 

Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about. 
And they opened their beaks and they let out a shout, 
“We know who is who! Now there Isn’t a doubt. 
The best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without!” 

Then, of course, those with stars got all frightfully mad. 
To be wearing a star was frightfully bad. 
Then, of course, old Sylvester McMonkey McBean 
invited THEM into his Star-Off Machine. 

Then, of course from THEN on, as you probably guess, 
Things really got into a horrible mess. 

All the rest of that day, on those wild screaming beaches, 
The Fix-It-Up Chappie kept fixing up Sneetches. 
Off again! On again! In again! Out again! 
Through the machines they raced round and about again, 

Changing their stars every minute or two. They kept paying money. 
They kept running through until the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knew 
Whether this one was that one or that one was this one. Or which one 
Was what one or what one was who. 

Then, when every last cent of their money was spent, 
The Fix-It-Up Chappie packed up. And he went. 
And he laughed as he drove In his car up the beach, 
“They never will learn. No. You can’t Teach a Sneetch!” 

But McBean was quite wrong. I’m quite happy to say. 
That the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day. 
The day they decided that Sneetches are Sneetches. 
And no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beaches. 
That day, all the Sneetches forgot about stars and whether 
They had one, or not, upon thars.

The Marathon

Boston, the Marathon, the Red Sox, the heart beat of America, and the heart will continue to beat for freedom and justice. The heart will beat for life for the survivors, the first responders, volunteers, Doctors and nurses, and all sorts of hospital workers who administered to the victims of the horrific scene at the finish line yesterday. The heart beats for the investigators who are working swiftly to bring the perpetrators to justice, and a swift speedy trial in America's courtroom. I want that to happen.

I have read some pretty nasty stuff on Facebook over the past few days. For the most part, it is not well thought out. Some of it engenders hate, and encourages me and others like me to be hateful and vengeful. I will not bow down to intimidation from any quarter. I will not rush to judgment against anyone. I will not join a chorus of wrongful demands that are basically aimed at smearing entire nations or races because of a few nor will I not cast aspersions on those who do so.

I would like to see less bravado and more thought. Facts are important. More bravery and fewer aspersions. The folks who really hurt, the victims, maimed for life should be our primary concern, and also ourselves. We should take care of each other. We can assert our common dignity and lift each other up. Difficult to do? Right! Easy answers? No! But it is important for the heart to be beating, not for death to anyone, but life for all.

Just Visiting

Saturday provided me with the opportunity to go to the Berkshire Carousel as a visitor. I was pleasantly surprised and excited all over again, similar to my first visit about a year ago. But I was also an insider this time.

My son Dan, daughter Meg and grandson Hannibal accompanied me, and I gave them the grand tour as I have come to know the carousel. My first observation was that something new had been added to the work space. Since Thursday, some thing new had been added; the shipment of the anxiously awaited rounding boards had arrived and were occupying the front section of the workshop. The boards, neatly cabled together,  are primed and ready for painting. These will hold lights, special paintings of life in the Berkshires, and large photographs depicting Berkshire County history. It will take a beefed up crew of painters to get these ready over the coming months. The mechanism on which the horses, chariots, and rounding boards will be placed is also scheduled to come soon. I have learned that soon is a non-specific word that means maybe later than sooner.

I was able to impress my family with what I knew about the rounding boards. Then we headed to the carving area. There were probably about fifteen volunteers working on some of the projects that had begun weeks ago, that were also worked on by me and others of the weekday crews. It is impressive that there is such continuity from one group of volunteers to the next. Several of the Saturday workers had been there on Thursday with me moving forward on projects that were dear to them, the horse Magic, and the donkey, Missy.

My family enjoyed meeting some of my co-workers, and they in turn were happy to meet Hannibal. He put up with their funny faces and sounds, smiled as only a 7 month old can, and won their hearts.

We looked over the carcasses of Malinda, Rusty and Thunderbolt, all still being worked on. Dan and Meg remembered reading about them in my previous blogs, and then we went back to the front of the shop and explored the finished horses. We observed the things that made the horses different, flowers, a cat or dog nestled behind the saddle, decorous blankets and bridles. Then it was Hannibal's chance to shine as we perched him on one horse and took pictures, and then on another horse. He seemed to fit, but had trouble holding on by himself. Maybe next year, when the Carousel is actually up and running.

The real difference this time for me was that I have been part of the project for a few months. I felt a great sense of pride in the accomplishment of all the volunteers, and I enjoyed showing off their/our work. The wonder of my first visit when I felt like I would like to be involved had turned into a new wonder that I have been involved in a world of carving and painting that is wonderful for me and for my family, and for so many others.

On the job training: Magic

Today, the Berkshire Carousel started earlier than usual for me, a day full of learning opportunities, from formal instruction on carving to practical answers to situations that develop.

There was a carving class, the second in  series, this one given by Joe Tournier, one of the floor managers dedicated to the production of that great horse Malinda. I found some themes in his presentation that reinforced most of what I had learned thus far. The notion of planning ahead came out as “What is the next step?” Carving is done in “comfortable stages.” Each stage builds on the previous one. Each cut of the chisel leaves bare a surface for the next part of the piece. There should be a continuous awareness of where the body of the horse is, which body parts are exposed, and which areas may be covered by straps or saddles or other adornments. So in the comfort zone, the carver leaves enough wood in areas for all possibilities that are defined in the drawings and etchings on the carving block. “Only do it once,” is one goal according to Joe. “It is easier to take away wood, than to add it back.” He encouraged us to do constant editing and to practice.

An urgent assignment came to several of us. The horse named Magic needed some intensive work so the horse may be completed for a special event coming up in June. Magic’s four legs were carved, but had to be sanded, today. I learned all about sanding today. Coarse paper to start, finishing off with a fine grit. The standard was no scratches, no dips, maintaining the features of each leg. That was the easy part. I quickly learned two other things about sanding: don’t breathe too deeply (I held my breath most of the time), and don’t sand with your mouth open or your tongue out, unless you like the taste of fine wood dust.

Just being in the room with the variety of activity is an encyclopedic world of information, probably found nowhere else. In an earlier blog, I mentioned a neat trick called glue sucking where a glue can be drawn with a shop vac through a crack in a wood block and then reclamped to get a tight unbreakable bond in the block of wood. Today, the glue sucking was brought into play again, this time to repair a body area on a horse that had split off, not completely. That is one amazing application that I have had the privilege of witnessing twice now. I was informed that a similar shop vac technique has been used to facilitate the worming of electrical wire through a conduit for up to half mile. Wow! Just tie a long string on a cotton ball, and suck it through the tube, carefully threading the string as it goes through the tube.  Remember to tie the other end to the wire, and then you can pull the wire through. These guys come up with everything.

A final tidbit that I learned today is first aid for a cut. To stop the bleeding, apply black pepper to the cut. It serves as a coagulant. It seemed to work. Thankfully, I wasn’t the person who got cut.

So it was a productive day. Learning occurs at many levels, at any time. Carpe diem!

Impossible to Possible:Not Magic

After a two week break, I returned to the Berkshire Carousel yesterday. I like to see quick progress, and expected to see a big change. I wondered if Malinda was ready for the paint shop, or Missy had been painted and was on display in the window. I looked for Magic to be ready for showing and a beautifully carved head for Rusty.

I guess I live in a dreamworld where things happen quickly; sometimes within twenty seconds, an entire life changing event happens. Such is not the case at the Carousel. Progress is made in small increments; hardly ever quickly; always carefully. Speed is not a virtue, but rather a hazard, which can cause problems like "do overs", thereby wasting hours of time. It happens.

But the horses were making progress towards completion. Rusty's head was being meticulously carved by Phil. I witnessed several conversations about the correct procedure for carving the ears and the floral trappings around the mane, and Phil consulting with fellow carvers to assure that the lines were accurate. Rusty's elaborate tail decorations were also a big topic, but that could not be immediately resolved. Carving by collaboration and consensus takes time.

Malinda's head that Becky has been working on received her eyes yesterday. Jim guided Becky through the process of mixing the epoxy filler that would bind the eyes in the carved sockets. It was a messy, sticky procedure, and I am pretty sure that Jim did not swallow any of the epoxy, despite the fact that he had to lick his fingers as he moved the eye into position. The eyes make the head come alive, and it was a great step forward.

Missy continues to be prepped for painting, and Magic continues to be sanded. Magic will probably be on display at a fundraiser at Macy's in a couple of months... "the magic of Macy's"

I worked on Rusty's body most of the day, and had a great talk with Rusty's sponsor, a neat elderly man who is honoring his wife with the sponsorship. Rusty was a horse on her farm back in Texas during the day.

So, during that two weeks, I did miss something. I also came to understand the value of careful attention to tasks. Details are important. Progress on the carousel is not measured by quantity, but by care and quality. The impossible is possible.

Florida: to go or not to go

Going away for a late winter/early spring week in Florida has put a damper on my blogging, and I hope no one is too disappointed. I needed to rest up from my life in retirement. There is nothing like a great vacation, visiting old friends who take care of you from the moment you step off the plane until you finally enter the terminal to board the return flight. I am forever grateful to my friends who took such good care of me and treated me so royally. There is a charm about Florida.

Since I have returned, I have been asked the same question, over and over.  Are you going to move there? I don't like to say never. Anything can happen.

During my visit, I stayed in relatively decent shape by walking daily about 3 miles early in the day. I stopped at Joey's Place, a neat little diner in a shopping area along the way, one day. The walls were covered with licence plates from all the states that I could think of, and a couple of foreign countries like Brazil and Canada. It seemed like a popular spot for young workers and retirees.

I first sat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and an English muffin, and then was invited to sit in a booth by Mike, who welcomed me with the words "Tell me your story." I got as far as "I'm from upstate New York..." and then he began to tell me his story, about Port St. Lucie- how it was begun. "So and so bought 5 or 10 thousand acres of swamp land... divided it into building lots...which he sold  in the early fifties for $10 down and $10 a month for life...unless you sold it...it worked, eventually, and the city was born, growing to about 150,000 people today." "Hurricane Andrew showed how vulnerable the supply chain is. It all depends on trucking. There is about two weeks of goods in the line. When the emergency hit, the folks from Miami picked the shelves clean in their area, did the same in the county just north of them; the folks from there did the same to West Palm Beach area, and so on, picking the shelves clean further and further north, like the invasion of the locusts." His story ranged from his own short life in New York State, the politics of emergencies, and walking on the roads around Port St. Lucie.

It was walking on the roads that really caught my interest. I mentioned the road I was walking on. "You shouldn't walk there," he said. "Why not?" I queried. "You'll get run over." he replied. "I walk on US 22 in New York," I said, "18 wheelers  wide loads, roll by all the time." "But these people driving around here are blind and drunk... you're gonna get killed." he insisted. "I watch the cars and step onto the grass when they come," I said, trying to calm him down, "I actually worry more about walking on the grass than on the road because of the millions of ants that might kill me." "You shouldn't walk on these roads," he said. I decided that I had to get back on the roads to complete the walk.

As I walked, I thought about that conversation. The roads are straight, no curves, no hills, no shoulders; nearly endless sight, designed for speed. There were empty beer cans and bottles littering the grass; no bottle return policy in Florida. (I actually thought of collecting the bottles and shipping them to NY and collecting the deposit, but after examining one container, I realized that the deposit tag that is on the bottles and cans in NY and the northeast was missing.) As people exited their driveways, which are fairly close together along the road, they seemed to be intent on doing almost anything other than driving: texting, phoning, applying make up, shaving, computering, drinking, eating, hugging. The guy was right. the roads are dangerous, and you could get killed.

I learned from my friends that there was a wild area under some high power lines which is inhabited by wild pigs..."Stay out of there!"; that if you encounter an alligator...."Do not run in  a straight line to avoid him, but zig-zag."; that there are moats along I-95 that swallow cars that go off the road which might leave a driver dead and lost for weeks.

The real charm of Florida, besides the people I met and stayed with is the weather, especially in the winter. I suppose the same can be said of the Northeast where the people also are endearing, and the weather has its own attractive four seasons.

And the bottom line is, comfort zone. I think I am settled in for the long haul here; at any rate, I will not be moving to Florida soon.

St. Patrick's Day pride

We are poised at the beginning of St. Patrick's Day weekend... yes weekend this year, just like all the other great holidays we celebrate. A weekend of Irish pride and more. And why not?

I went to St. Patrick's school as a kid. We proudly wore green every day, shirt and corduroy pants. We knew St. Patrick tamed the heathen in the country he came to call home. He drove out the snakes. He explained the burning issue of how there can be three persons in one God by using the simple illustration of the national flower of Ireland, the shamrock.

There were a few facts in that last paragraph. He did a number on the heathen, and he used a shamrock to teach. The snakes? No.

I think if I were ever captured as a kid, and enslaved as Patrick was, I would have been angry. I may have sought revenge if I ever dared to go back. But Patrick, after having been a slave for several years, did go back to those who enslaved him, not to exact vengeance, Rather he embarked on a mission to change the lives of his former captors. This was not an easy thing to do. When you start talking about freeing all slaves, and letting the women be free to join the nunnery, the chieftains got more than a little upset. Maybe this is where the Irish get their moxie, their chutzpah, their pride. This Patrick, staring the elders in the face, and, to use a modern phrase that comes from old testament times, saying "Let the people go." He wrote a letter to a brigand named Corticus demanding that he free some men whom he had enslaved. Corticus ridiculed Patrick, who would not back down from his demand, and Corticus was excommunicated. Powerful, guy, that Patrick. It is hard to determine the effectiveness of the action, but Patrick stood his ground.

A real cool tidbit about Patrick is his own proud ancestry. His father was a deacon, but his grandfather was a bishop. I wonder what would happen if the men who are bishops and priests today had legitimate sons and daughters. Would there be more men and women like Patrick, ready to stand up for the right things; really on the side of the down trodden and the poor. Would there be a kinder and gentler approach to all people, an appreciation of all that is beautiful and good in everyone.

I think we need more people like Patrick, men and women, straight and gay, of every persuasion. We could use more humility to accompany our pride of being a scion of St. Patrick.